Missing Marlene.

At the time of writing this, it will have been 4 months, twenty-one days, and twelve hours since I lost her. I keep asking myself how. How do I start to write about the death of my mom. I never thought that on January 5, 2016, I’d be living in a world without her. I knew I’d have to write about it eventually. Writing has always been a catharsis for me - one that my mom celebrated and encouraged me to pursue since I was a child. 

I remember at the beginning of every summer, my mom would give me a black and white composition book, and tell me to write a complete story every day, and read it to her when she got home from work. I saw it as a chore, but as I got better, and let my imagination do the writing for me, I began to look forward to reading her these stories, ones that would illicit mountain rolling, tear-inducing laughter from her. Always my most ardent supporter, biggest fan, best friend, and love of my life, it’s like losing her, meant losing 5 people at once - and, losing a big part of myself. 

She embodied strength, and courage. After losing the last vestiges of her eye sight shortly before I was born, she didn’t let something so devastating deter her from being an amazing example for my two sisters and I. Instead, she went back to school, earned another degree, and rose in the ranks in the federal government, a fete many with vision don’t set out to achieve. She taught me to love God early on. Besides their day jobs, my mother and father were missionaries. 

At 7 years-old, they took me on a missionary trip with them to Tema, Accra, Ghana. My mom and dad had a singing grouped called Seven at their church, and they were set to perform at a gathering the second night after we’d arrived. I remember sitting in the audience, looking at my parents in awe, clutching my baby blue Gunde bear that I affectionately named Christopher. And after my momma performed, I saw so many Christian Ghanians come up to her, and touch her face. They realized she was blind. And with so much strength and courage, she talked with them about God - and how he’d given her greater vision than what her physical sight could offer. And then, I didn’t know what that meant. I thought about it so many times growing up and finally asked her before I left for college in 2005. She told me, “Angel, God never puts more on us than we can bare. And although I’d love to know what your pretty face looks like, my heart can see you. You remember that. when the world feels like too much to you, you remember that God must think the world of the strength that you possess.” 

I didn’t know that I’d have to call upon that strength so soon. I thought she’d be here to see me get married, to see me have my first child. Win an Emmy, fulfill all the potential and ambition that she’d instilled in me. The week before my mom went on life support, my family and I were on a road trip. And on the way back, I knew something was wrong. We stopped at a rest stop to get some gas somewhere in South Carolina. I opened the door, and reached into the passenger side where she was sitting, and laid my head on her lap. I said, “Momma, you’re not going anywhere are you?” She said, “Baby, I’m not going anywhere, I’m not going to leave you. I’ll never leave you.” 

She passed away two weeks after that. And although she’s not here in the physical sense with us, I know that she continues to keep her promise from heaven. I know that she’s here with me, I can feel her. And even though I selfishly want her here on earth, I know that she’s living in the ultimate paradise with Our Father. I can’t help but to carry on and live her legacy. 

I miss you mommy. Daddy, Penni, Aeirss and I miss you so much. 

A Note on Friendship from a Lone Wolf.

I’ve had long time best friends become enemies, enemies become best friends then enemies again, I’ve had friends I would have counted as the closest to me fade, come and go, and it isn’t lost on me, that I am the common denominator. I’ve lost friends because of my inability to express myself or show my true emotions during bad times (a problem that does NOT afflict me when it comes to letting someone I actually don’t like have it), I’ve lost friends because of my career ambitions. I can go months on end mired in work, and when I look up, everyone’s gone. 

I’m not the woman who has a constant group of girlfriends, I am the woman who went to boarding school (high school) with girlfriends who I’ll love for life, but live in other countries, or across the country. I am the private school, preppy black girl who found strength and purpose in discovering her black identity, and taking “like” and “omg” and other Valley Girl shit like that out of my vocabulary, convinced this purposeful “white accent” only fed into white supremacist ideology of what it meant to be an innocent, acceptability. I am the friend who will undoubtedly, pretty much do anything for my other friends if they need it, or ask it of me, even to my own detriment. I am the big-mouthed at work, but quiet and contemplative in public friend, who’s silence and inability to hide what I feel on my face makes for impressions of the “stuck up bitch” variety. I am the friend that you can talk shit about, and will still forgive and forget at the drop of a dime, because it takes so much for me to love, and once I have, it’s pretty tough for me to undue that shit. 

I am, for better or for worst, the lone wolf. Why it took me until now to really admit it, and half way feel fine about it? Probably those series of failed friendships I mentioned at the beginning of this damn thing.

Although my silence at losing those friendships may seem to those people as apathy, it’s some sort of mechanism that kicks in. You know that hag that would come to you in your sleep when you were a kid? Robbing you of your ability to speak, and it wasn’t fear that grabbed you, but perhaps, a guilt at wondering what you’d done, I mean REALLY done, to illicit her wrath. That’s me. Strong in my convictions, obsessed with my work, a little cold, but mush when it comes to my friendships and family. Losing those friendships was like, death every time. And somehow, I started to wonder if I wasn’t worthy of the female companion that I could call and decompress to, or, the friend who’d come sit with my mom and I in the hospital as she almost passed away so many times. 

So, while my mom fought for her life, with months of hospital stays and chronic illness, and I watched the person I considered my pillar of strength seemingly slip further, and I wore a mask like I didn’t give a fuck that these girls were gone, I wondered where everyone was. This was January of 2015. I’m private to a fault, I’m usually the strength, so I don’t reach out for extra. But you know what? When I finally did, when I said, hey, I kinda need a girlfriend to just be a sounding board, I’d realized, that I had friends, who were just as lone-wolfy as me, that were, and had, always been there. That watched in the wings as I gave my all to women who weren’t really, really my friends, but enjoyed the specter of it. 

They weren’t the friends I always posted pictures with on Instagram, they didn’t want to go to the private “influencer” dinners or enjoy the benefits of my industry with me, they were the women who’s business had consumed them like me, who enjoyed rolling a blunt and sipping Shiraz on the couch all night. Who plotted on career moves and disappeared to get better, just like me. Super fabulous and humble, not mean girls, like me. They told me that real friendship, is a love that’s there through thick and thin, better or worse, if you act like a bitch or an asshole, and love you through it. When you’re not the most popular, or you are. When you’re in the limelight, on TV, or just moving back to Baltimore to get some journalistic chops, they are there. Present. Not on some bull shit. Although my ex-friends might not have been that for me, they are for someone else. SOMEONE accepts their bull shit and loves them through it. Someone has been their enemy, and became their best friend, and still is. Someone has been friends with them since they were kids, and will be their maid of honor, or best man, at their wedding. I am not it, and I’ve come to be okay with that. It’s okay that I’m a lone wolf, and disappear into myself quite often. There are benefits to my friendship, and even through my own bull shit, I deserve that love.

Why is a woman, in her late twenties, giving a fuck about all this friendship, drama, bull shit? Because friends are the stuff of life. They are family. They are an appendage. Especially when you're a single 20-something who doesn't have any kids, and small nuclear family. 

I wrote this because, I’ve talked to a lot of women lately, my age, that I’ve met in my travels and through my work who tell me that the sisterhood just isn’t there anymore for them. They feel alone. And I just want to say it’s cool to make friends no matter what age you are. That “no new friends” shit is stupid. I’ve met people on this end of my life who know me, and relate to me better than ones I’ve known since I was a teenager. My girlfriend, who shares my same name with an addition of an “A” at the end said this, “In life we don't need a lot of friends just the RIGHT friends!” 

- Angel 

Sigh | Hoppin' on the Insanity Bandwagon

Let's face it. At some point, we all bull sh*t about our gym routine unless hittin' the treadmill has already been apart of our everyday life - or we went through some type of fitness epiphany. Well this is mine. In my life personally, I've been able to pretty much skate by being a fitness fanatic, or not going to the gym at all because of genetics. 

Exhibit A, my mom: 

My mom was the undisputed curve queen when she was my age (27). She was a curvy, thick-thighed, small waisted juggernaut. I inherited my mom's body type, and hence, it's kind of difficult for me to gain a bunch of weight in my waist area, but my hips and thighs are fair game. Why is this a problem you ask? Because the sh*t can get out of control! And as I get older, I notice, that I HAVE to go to the gym to keep it under control. Now this isn't some NYE resolution sh*t. Nor am I posting thirst trap pics. I just decided once and for all, to get a handle on my curves, and try for a six pack summer. Enter Insanity. 

I've seen so many people do it. Try and succeed, try and fail. And the reason I'm sharing my Insanity journey with you is because I want to make sure and hold myself accountable. Below, you'll see my before and after pics (no filter, lol), and throughout the weeks, 60 days to be exact, I'll post updates. And let me be honest. I've tried to start this program, like, twice. And dropped the ball. Like. Did it a week or two theeeeen forgot to do it. Literally. No bueno.

Is anyone else doing Insanity? Let me know!

- Angel 

M*tha Effing Self Love.

“When I loved myself enough, I began leaving whatever wasn’t healthy. This meant people, jobs, my own beliefs and habits - anything that kept me small.

My judgement called it disloyal. Now I see it as self-loving.”

— K. McMillen

Malcolm X Doc Diary | Day 1 VLog

Day one is a wrap! Check out my vlog. No makeup, super raw, super tired, but feeling ambitious and energized. 

- Angel 

Don't Panic.

I've become a cryer. A sniveling, sentimental, cryer. As ridiculous as that sounds I'm owning up to it.

In my past, in relationships, friendships, nothing could make me cry. But as I delve into older adulthood, comfortably in my late twenties, things that wouldn't have made a difference to me in the past, losing people, some tense situations, make me cry. At first I wondered if this emotionalism was a sign of weakness. At first I wondered if I lost my muscle, if I'd changed. But then I realized crying is just as human as laughing, as yelling, as moaning. It's the physical embodiment of how you're feeling and although every situation doesn't call for it - don't let anyone denigrate you, or make you feel bad for expressing yourself through tears. It's a language God understands. It means your HUMAN. Who wants to be a robot, or be with a robot? 

Don't panic if you cry. Don't panic if you feel overwhelmed with the business of living. CRY. Let that shit out. Then get over it, for good. For me, crying is a release, a catharsis. Once I've had that one GOOD BIG cry, it's like the emotions of the situation have poured out, and I'm whole again. 

I share this personal bit of me with you because I've come to understand that even though I can be a secretive, very introverted person, sharing my experience is what makes me relatable. It's what gives me the ability to reach you. I hope to update TheAngelEra.com WAY more in 2015. It's my baby. 

In the mean time, tell me what makes you cry? 

- Angel 

Where Have I Been.

Well...

Title change, investigative journalist. Delving into the social and systemic reasons why society functions the way it does can take you to the deepest, darkest recesses of humanity that you wouldn't think, or want to think, exist. Every new job you take opens something new in you than the previous, it challenges you in a different way and makes you look at yourself in a different light. This one has made me understand that my mission is bigger than me  - it's made me reflect on my mission as a journalist and a person.

I want to do more than write and report... I want to edify and sustain, I want to open eyes - and be the bridge to cultures and people, societies, countries... And in order to do that it will take a focus and ambition in me that's been a little reticent in the past. I now understand that revolutionary change has to start with self-transformation - and reflection. Dissent from social dogma is essential, and that basically means not giving a sh*t what people think, which is of course, easier said than done.

So, to answer the question, I've been working, and in truth I've been on a journey of sorts. I hope to update more because this site is my baby. Hope you all are well, happy Monday.

- Angel